


consensual

by refectory



Series: The Binding [3]
Category: The Binding - Bridget Collins
Genre: AU where Seredith has different ideas of what counts for consent, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Seredith, Canon Gay Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 09:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21013451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refectory/pseuds/refectory
Summary: In which Seredith is a good mentor, and Lucian burns Emmett's book.





	consensual

**Author's Note:**

> As usual: Bridget Collins, please do not sue me.

Hooves sloshing through the marsh creates a distinctive sound, especially when paired with the creaking wheels of a cart.

I jolt out of bed when I hear the horses, panic firing through me. I have to take a moment to breathe. It isn't the Crusaders, although my hands still shake at the memories. It isn't them. People are sensible enough to be ashamed of that, now.

My gown is crumpled on the floorboards. I pick it up and wrap it around my shoulders, creeping downstairs. The horse draws closer; just one, I hope. I squint out the front windows; there is a circle of light looping ever closer – torches. A familiar fear returns, at least until the horse and it's rider stop; more than safe from a witch's influence, too far away for a sensible burning.

I struggle to make out who is here, vision failing me in my older age. There are three silhouettes I can make out: a rider, a large man sitting in the cart, a thinner figure being shoved out. This one stumbles, collapses to his knees, stays there for a brave second. Eventually he pulls himself up. His strides are small and tilted. I fear he will fall down into the swamp and let it swallow him.

But he makes it to my door. He knocks oddly; an even, steady rhythm without pause. And I call it odd but I am familiar with this dissociative greeting, an automatic movement from someone disengaged from their own body. I open the door and meet the young man's eyes. He has light hair and eyes and is wearing his sleeping clothes. He looks like he's in the midst of a bad dream.

I can't help a gasp, quickly aborted. ‘Boy,’ I start.

He interrupts me. ‘I need a binding.’

I glance over his shoulder, at the horse and its cart and the large man who has left the safety of it to loom menacingly, ankle deep in mud. My stomach turns. ‘Are you sure?’

For a moment it's as if he doesn't hear me. I hope he doesn't. I hope he can't consent and I won't be forced to do this to him. Such thoughts are dashed when his eyes focus and cease looking through me as if I'm not there. They're brown, his eyes, thunderous and bloodshot; hooded with a darkness he wants to be released from. 

‘Yes,’ He says. The word has a bruise. ‘I need him out of my head.’

* * *

My first binding was with a woman named Annali Tailor. 

I lived with my master for two years before I was deemed ready; Linus promised me I could take the next client. It took three weeks for a desperate soul to arrive at our door. Back then, the stigma against binding was a temperamental beast; a seething fear and hatred that would lay foundations for the Crusade, which burned alive more than half the people I knew. There were long stretches of time between clients. I used to bite my fingernails in anticipation for them, desperate to prove myself and justify Linus for choosing me as his apprentice. 

Annali Tailor arrived in the dead of night. No horse. She knocked on our door covered in blood, with a ring of bruises around her bicep and a bleeding wound from the side of her head. 

‘Are you the binder?’ She asked, in a voice that wasn't questioning at all. Linus stepped in front of me protectively; I stepped into my tiptoes to look at her, and instead found myself looking over her head. In the distance, half covered by a tree, was a man holding a torch.

_ Her father? _I thought, questioning. I then looked at the woman, only to discover she wasn't one at all. Annali Tailor was eleven years old at the time; the same age as my younger brother, before I was called away. Her eyes were older, though at the same time frighteningly childlike. I still can't describe the dichotomy of what she was, what she represented; a witness of adult horrors, with a very genuine childish terror of what laid behind her.

‘We are.'

‘I need to be relieved of something.’

‘My dear . . .’ said Linus, ' You cannot take this back. Are you quite—’

‘I don't have a choice,’ Annali snapped. She began to hug herself, suspended on a tightrope. On one end was the shadowed man she kept sneaking glances at; on the other, us, who required no dire description. ‘Yes. Bind me.’

Linus worried his lower lip, but stepped aside to let her in. Annali crept in with the limping walk of a wounded animal. ‘Seredith,’ Linus whispered to me. ‘Maybe I should handle this one.’

A stone dropped in my stomach. ‘You promised I could do this,’ I reminded him, a bit stung. ‘Linus. Please. If I'm going to be a binder . . .'

‘The next one, perhaps. The situation here seems delicate. I would not want for you to experience such a harsh binding for your first.’

Youthful petulance made my eyes burn with furious tears. I couldn't believe Linus would betray his word to me, set me aside like a useless tool he couldn't trust to work the right way. 'You're the one who told me that every binding is hard. What's the difference? Why can't I do this?’

‘Seredith . . .'

_ ‘Linus._’

Annali Tailor was standing by the fireplace, staring emotionlessly into the flickering flames. I saw a hollow girl who needed rot excised from her mind. I saw an opportunity to help someone the way I was born to. 

'I can help her,’ I told my master stubbornly. ‘Let me help her.’

Linus, still uncertain, put his large hand on my shoulder. His entire right side was one mottled scar; he tried to burn with his books three summers earlier, only to be saved by an abrupt thunderstorm. He confessed he had an instinct, now – a flare in his scars that warned him of complications. Of dangers. I wonder if that's what was happening now, or if he simply didn't have faith in my abilities and that was making him jumpy.

Annali stormed over to us with creases everywhere on her face. She kept looking out the window. I was beginning to lose my patience with it. Is she searching for the man? Why? It was her choice to come here, so why did she act like we dragged her in?

‘Is there a problem?’ She asked. ‘Can you not do it after all?’

‘I can,’ I cut in front of Linus. I sent him a quelling look to stay back, taking the keyring from his pockets. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

Annali looked at me, tears in her old-young eyes. ‘Please just do something.’

* * *

‘What is your name, boy?’

‘Emmett Farmer.’

‘Emmett… that's a nice, strong name. I am Seredith. Why don't you come with me, Emmett?’

He follows me like a puppet on strings. He falls into his chair, cut free, lifeless, empty of any fear of the unknown. I know the binding room can be – confronting, especially considering the heightened, frantic state my clients usually arrive in. But Emmett sits there, scowling at his hands, unafraid. I fear he isn't capable of it.

‘Let's sit here,’ I say after lighting the candles. I take a seat across from him. A blank book is in front of me. My magic is seamless, as all binding magic is. It isn't intrusive or heavy. Amateurs to the practice never notice it during their first few bindings; we aren't supposed to. It's a gentle transaction. You bind out of unconditional love. It doesn't hurt. It never hurts. It takes years to identify the vein of magic tied into binding.

I have practice. Keeping a tight leash on my magic, I wait in cold silence for Emmett to come back to his body. He needs to know nothing is happening to him. It takes long minutes for a sign of life, but it sparks eventually: Emmett begins to hyperventilate.

I don't touch him. It's too risky. 

‘Emmett? Emmett, look at me. You're okay. You're okay. I am not going to hurt you,' I can't do anymore than gently coach him through it with my voice alone, and I can't open the door in fear of anyone interrupting the process. He's stuck with me. Once he calms down, he'll realise I am a lesser evil. 

That's _ if _he calms down.

Emmett kicks, sends the table screeching across the floor. Catching it stops it from winding me, and pushes my wrists backwards to the point of pain. He leaps to his feet, chair falling onto the floor, and begins to _ swear. _It is like he is reciting poetry. There is a certain beauty and rhythm to the foul words – and clear targets.

I'm so appalled at his manners that I don't catch most of his grievances, only keywords: Darnay, Castleford, Alta, all of whom are apparently humorless rat-bastards who deserve to be strung up by their privates if only he had the means to do it. Interspersed in his righteous anger, he cries for someone, but his description confuses me and I can't tell if he mourns a lover or his dog. It is clear his distress comes from his heart. 

I'm hesitant to interrupt, yet I must. 'Emmett. Emmett!'

He sticks his finger up at me. The audacity. 'Lucian warned me about what you do. I won't let you take a single thing from me, do you hear me? There is nothing you can do or say that will convince me to _ give him up—' _

He's so furious it's difficult to tell whether he's speaking to me or just _speaking_. Regardless, his rejection is the magic word, as it was. The air flexes as it registers: _Emmett Farmer_ _does not consent_. I cannot conduct the ritual.

He is yelling at everyone he can think of who has recently wronged him. Now that I can, I reach out to touch him. Despite his earlier dramatics, he lets me come close, watching with cat-like paranoia as I close my fingers around his arm. He does not hit me. Sometimes it happens, so I'm happy with his reaction.

I tell him faithfully, 'I won't be binding you tonight. Or any night, not as long as you do not want me to.'

He sneers, 'Don't tell me they sent me to a fake?'

'They did not. I am the binder.' I say. He goes tense. 'A crucial part of any binding is consent. You retracted yours. There is nothing I can do from here, unless you were to change your mind . . . ?'

Emmett is stunned. He hisses, '_Never._ You can't take it. You can't.' He realizes I will not fight him. 'You're saying that all of . . . Splotch and the kidnapping . . . was for nothing? You can't do it?'

'You need to want it,' I confirm. Emmett's breath leaves him at once, so I pick up his seat and guide him to it. The poor lad may need it

'I don't. I don't. It hurts, but it's _ mine _. I won't let you steal it from me.' How to explain how much I don't want to? I can't. I don't. Emmett presses his hands to his eyes, weary, 'There is someone waiting for me. Outside. He has my sister. He killed . . . he fucking . . . my dog is dead. If I don't bind my memories, Acre will hurt my sister.'

I suspected something similar. In fact, it happens quite often – naturally magic that can eliminate witnesses to a crime appeals to the worst sort of people in the world. Magic judges consent using a binary ruling. Someone asking for a binding due to blackmail doesn't register as not wanting a binding; magic doesn't account for it. That's where I pick up the slack – _ I _care for the complexities of consent, and I hold my clients to that ever-changing standard.

'We need to hatch a scheme, young man.' I sit across from Emmett, who cracks a reluctant smile at my outdated saying. 'Here is what we can do. I can keep you here for a few hours, no ritual, and you return to your kidnapper and pretend the deed has been done.'

Emmett shakes his head quickly, 'I couldn't . . . I'm too angry. I'd try and kill him.'

After his violent display earlier, 'I can't say I am surprised. I could sneak you out the backdoor.'

'What if he comes in looking?' He asks. Emmett is concerned for my safety. 'He is not a nice man . . .'

I smile. 'Forgot, did you? My name is Seredith.'

'Seredith. Seredith, what if he comes in? Can you defend yourself? And what about Alta, what would he do to her if I ran off? He knows where I live. Oh god, not that option. What more?'

I tap my fingers on the table. It creates a drumming sound, my nails long and tough to assist with the labour of binding books. It's almost hypnotic.

Emmett relaxes as I go on, deep in thought. 'I would not suggest fighting your way out. While I know of magic capable of defense, I am not that kind of witch. Few are.' The last Crusade wiped out hedge witches entirely. Anyone still learned in that magic would do well to keep it secret; it was a pointless avenue. 

'I could . . .' Emmett's earlier words come back to me. I watch him tensely, wrists aching, and suggest, 'I could bind you on a temporary basis.'

His hackles rise: 'Absolutely not.'

'Emmett.'

'No. You can't understand what that would do to me. I love him. I don't want to forget that.'

_ Him?_ So it was a former lover. Hesitantly I begin to connect the pieces based on morsels of information he has given up. I have no aversion to that particular sexual deviancy; perhaps I did in my youth, but decades as a binder have firmly erased any lingering prejudice. I have too many love stories in my library explicitly involving the practice to see it as deformed or evil. True evil, I am familiar with, and it bears no resemblance to something like that.

I tap faster. 'I would return the memories.'

'You can _ do that_?'

'Certainly. Memories are bound in books. Burn the book, you burn the magic keeping the memories there. They would return to you. However burning books is taboo. I wouldn't suggest it lightly.'

'So you wouldn't do it?'

I swallowed harshly. 'I would. I've done it before. Most binders prefer to die with their books no matter what, but I simply can't keep a book if I know it wasn't consensual. Yes, Emmett, I would burn your book.'

He considers his clenched fists. Flexes them. 'Does binding hurt?'

'You wouldn't remember if it did. But no, it doesn't. I will warn you that having the memories returned can stress your body and mind.'

'And how would I be afterwards?'

'I can't say. It affects everyone differently. Some need it, and being bound makes them happier, unburdened. Cases like yours . . . I've found the body retains memories the mind has forgotten. It can drive some mad.'

Stricken, Emmett presses, 'Would it drive _ me _mad?'

'Not if you said yes,' I say sternly, 'Consent is important because it keeps your mind sane afterwards. When consent isn't honestly given, that's when people experience mental backlash. There are cases for physical sickness as well; binding more than a month's worth of memories will require recovery time.'

He huffed, almost a laugh but too bitter. 'Sounds like more trouble than it's worth.'

'You don't have to go through with it.'

'Yeah, I get it, I get it. Consent. I . . . Can I think about it?'

'It'll have to be inside.'

'Figured. I just – it's big. It's really big. I need some time.'

'I can give you four hours. Then, a decision must be made.'

Emmett swallowed such a truth stubbornly. I decided not to be too worried for this young lad: he didn't run away from his problems. No, he faced difficult situations head-on.

He would be okay, whatever he did. I would help him.

* * *

Linus came forward with a pail balanced on his hip. He dropped it carelessly, causing a small wave of water to slosh over the edge. It caught the back of my hand, where my fingers were half-buried in the dirt. He wet a rag in preparation.

I heaved once more, wanting desperately to thank him for his thoughtfulness. I cannot make out the words. There was something evil inside of me, a memory that had me by the throat. Speaking was an impossible dream at the moment. Acidic, the smell of my sickness permeated the air.

The same circumstances that kept me speechless have not touched Linus. He knelt at my side; roughly mopped my mouth with the rag; asked: 'How do you feel?'

How do I _feel_? My arms shook. If there was anything left in my stomach I would have lost it, again. 'That man!' I rasped, 'We must tell someone. He is cruel, he has no humanity in him at all – she _can't _go back to him!'

'Stop it,' Linus told me, gentle.

'She is in danger! Mortal danger! She came to us fearful for her life and—'

'I said, stop. We are not officers. We have no right to enforce the law, nor do we have permission. Enough. Enough of this.'

'We have every right. As _ people, _it is our _ duty _ to interfere . . .!'

Linus' voice didn't rise at all. I sobbed and gagged and snivelled before him while he tidied my mess like I was but a babe, and he bore the ugly sight of me with every dignity he could muster. 'But we are not people,' He reminded me, 'we are witches. We are binders. Tell me, what do you think will happen to that girl if you go forward with your tale?'

Tale? It is the truth! I saw it, I lived it as Annali lived it, I now suffered as Annali suffered. 'Officers would have to investigate. Surely someone else has noticed what is happening, someone must be suspicious; he will be brought to _ justice_.'

'And if no one was suspicious?'

'Of course someone was,' I scoffed. 'The _ horrors _ . . .'

'And,' Linus repeated patiently, 'if no one was suspicious? What would you do, Seredith? Would you explain to them why you are so strident in your belief, perhaps expose yourself as a binder?'

Rigidly, I agreed, 'Of course.'

'You would confess to binding Annali Tailor?'

'Without hesitation!'

'I see. Let us assume that you do, that you aren't arrested or stoned or burned on the spot, for magic is so loathsome a thing that any witch careless enough to admit to it is put to death,' Linus pried my fingers from the soil and wiped them clean with his rag. He could be discussing the weather. 'What then? Annali Tailor is dragged in for questioning. She cannot corroborate your claims because her memories are bound. She is also a minor. Officers are prohibited from asking questions unless she has a guardian present.'

Horror gripped me. 

'Her father.'

He nodded. It occurred to me that Linus was speaking from a place of experience — that his master had the same talk with him, after a traumatizing binding. This tough love, regifted like a family heirloom we couldn't figure out how to get rid of. 

'Not only is Annali unable to testify, her father is aware of her treachery. Even more than before, her life is in danger. Annali cannot be trusted. Why bother with systemic abuse when there is the very real risk of getting persecuted? He can't take the chance. He must act. A man as callous as he would not hesitate to hurt her.'

'She is already hurt,' I protested weakly. 

I knew Ellis Tailor better than any living human. I knew what became of his wife, Annali's mother. I knew what Ellis was capable of, that he went as far as he did only because his wife threatened their fragile reality with _ honesty _the next time a friend asked after her injuries. He couldn't survive the idea of his hometown turning their back on him. Unfortunately neither did she.

My hands clean, the rag was returned to brown water. Linus took my chin and inspected me carefully. He swiped at dried tear streaks with his sleeve. 'Due to your actions, Seredith, the girl hurts less. Be proud of that.'

I understood that much. Binding existed as a surgical removal of the deepest of pains. But this was different. How could I possibly be proud of my actions, which could doom Annali?

I let her go back. Erasing the pain of her past did nothing to save her from what would happen _ now _ . She was less prepared than ever. Annali had no idea what to expect from him after her binding. She would be abused all over again, old hurts turned new again. _ Proud? _I was a coward. As soon as I finished binding I should have gone out there with a plank and smashed out Ellis Tailor's kneecaps.

Oh, if only the ritual didn't drain me so . . . !

'Remember,' He said. 'Remember that you did exactly what you were asked to do.'

It became too much for me. I imagined Annali's mother with vivid clarity. Her body was so still, warm to the touch. Annali could have lived out the rest of her days on her knees at her mother's side, waiting for her to wake. It didn't occur to her to feel any which way about what occurred until _ after _ Ellis hauled her up by the arm and started their march to the Binder's Cabin. To _ us_. The whole ride, she feared for her life. 

Annali did not want to see me. Annali did not want her memories taken from her. At the very least all she desired was to get out of this alive. 

I turned on Linus, furiously demanding, 'How could you say that to me? That wasn't consent.'

'It was. Seredith. It _ was.'_

'But—'

'Believe me. I _ know_,' Linus said harshly, the only slip in his composure I would witness for a while, 'You did what she asked you to do, our magic recognizes that. It has to be enough for you, Seredith.'

And if it wasn't enough? I opened my mouth to ask, but Linus stood up abruptly. He kicked over the pail with the intention of washing away some of the vomit, turning away. His shoulders were taut as a bow. He knew exactly what I was going to ask. Years before, he'd asked the same question. There was no doubt Linus understood my position.

In the end, I kept quiet. With a beleaguered sigh, Linus rubbed his eyes, 'I told you not to do it, Seredith. Come in when you're ready.'

* * *

Emmett walks himself out. 

I put aside his book – a thick four-hundred pages, bound to simple brown leather – and rotate my wrists. The table incident hurt quite a bit, a pain exacerbated by several hours of writing. I've surely added to my collection of calluses and warts, and I will need to order more ink via post. Perhaps Emmett's summer wasn't rife with adventure like others, but doing justice to the sheer amount of emotions he possessed was an endeavour that ate up paragraphs by itself. Emmett Farmer felt deeply and passionately about all things. I'd dishonor everything about him by skipping over the finer details.

I peered through my bedroom window as Emmett is manhandled into the cart once more. He goes along without protest; it will be almost a day before the binding effect wears off, during which he will be complacent and empty-headed. I catch a glimpse of a small figure with long hair, scrambling forward to steady Emmett as he threatens to tip over. Alta. 

I screwed my lips up. 

How to feel? Emmett no longer favoured his beloved little sister. Although he cared for her still, would die for her in a heartbeat, he was incapable of trusting her with anything truthful about himself. She'd betrayed him violently, and in doing so doomed more than just him – every day thoughts of Lucian carried him into sleep. Where was he? Why hadn't he said goodbye? Why hadn't he written? Was he okay? The silence was maddening. 

But Emmett was born with more privilege than his sister. 

I am the oldest child in a family of six, as well as the only daughter. I was made to help with the farm in my younger years but once my brothers started coming along, all of my focus went into becoming desirable. It was in my best interests to charm a boy of high standing. Due to my gender I was forbidden from inheriting the farm or any livestock, therefore if I wasn't taken care of by a husband, I would not be taken care of at all. 

That was Alta's reality, and so she set her sights high, on Lucian: a prince from Castleford. A boy who would treat her well. Kindness was a luxury, too.

She could have married out of the farm and into the city, a pretty Southern belle on the arm of the Darnay heir himself. He'd been so courteous, she anticipated a proposal any day now. Watching through the window as the love of her life fell into bed with her brother would have shattered her heart and her future. After investing so much of her time in Lucian, she was without suitors – her friends were already in the middle of courtships – so the good ones were taken. 

I couldn't properly begrudge a child for acting selfishly in a time of heartbreak. Alta had no idea what she was bringing down on her brother. She was hurt. If she could not have Lucian then no one would have the right. 

I'm sure tonight's events were quite the ugly shock to her.

Watching Emmett and Alta ride away is hard when I'm not sure what their fate will be.

I have to trust they will be okay.

Alta is a scared child — she is not a threat to Mr. Darnay. They will rely on her fear and her guilt to keep her silent. That was confirmed when she was not sent to me for a binding. They can't kill her either: should Emmett become a nuisance once more, she is their most expendable bargaining chip outside of Lucian himself.

When their single torch fades into darkness, I burrow myself into bed and sleep until noon. Yet I still ache. Is it from the ritual or old age? It's getting harder to tell the difference, to say nothing of how long my aches stay with me. My recovery time is not the same.

I go through my daily chores which keep my marshland cabin habitable, then disappear downstairs.

Emmett's book is where I left it. I pull up my chair, lay out my tools, and get to work. I clean up some pages, ink blots or ripped corners common issues, then consider the cover. 

A front cover of a book embodies everything important about its contents; it takes me a long time to decide what will go on it. What encompasses Emmett's memories, what image will respect everything he has gone through, and how to recreate it?

In the end it can only be the ruins of that castle, where he and Lucian spent much of their time. Emmett consciously acknowledged some sort of attraction to Lucian in that castle, and many times the boys returned there with Alta or Splotch or just themselves to explore the ruins and the forest surrounding it. The castle was the scene to many Emmett cherished and private memories.

There is no other place.

I have to go out the next day to collect pebbles to sand down and chisel. As well as ink I order some paints in the post, not due for weeks, but that's okay. Getting these wild rocks into shape eats up time. I have leftover green oils that I use for the forest, improvising with dark stains as well. When my array of silver paints arrive I can add shading to my rocks.

The castle depicted is empty, half-digested by an untamed forest, lonely and old and decrepit. To think, it would be home to a love story so new and tentative.

Once I am satisfied with the cover, two months have flown me by. I bind an older man who fears he is losing his mind – the week before his grandchildren were forced to reintroduce themselves to him – and he wanted his memories immortalized while he still retained them. It's a relief to bind someone for this reason. Binding an entire lifetime sacrifices the rest of my day, but its welcome, and putting together a cover for my new book keeps me busy until Turning.

Emmett told me to wait until harvest-time before I made my move. There was no way to tell if he would be watched by Mr. Darnay's hired crooks in the months following his binding or how long they would. It was reasonable to assume anyone who was tasked with such a duty would tire of it quickly enough – I was to send him a letter around about now, detailing how I required an apprentice and Emmett Farmer was going through binder's fever. 

Once I realized he was binder born, I offered to take him on. Emmett was thrilled at the idea. To be my apprentice would mean disgrace from his family (binding wasn't considered a trade so much as a death sentence, in smaller villages), which fortunately was exactly what Emmett desired.

He expressed he could not live within the vicinity of his parents after what happened. Once he remembered, he said, he was sure to want nothing to do with them.

So, I send the letter.

Days past, I receive one in turn. The Farmer's accepted my request. 

Emmett will be due in the spring.

* * *

What became of Annali Tailor is a mystery.

Following my atrocious display of composure, Linus ordered me to keep to the cabin and work on the books. He would be walking into town by himself and purchasing necessities. He wanted to keep me away from officers, for he knew I would attract attention as soon as I had the means. I supposed he had the right of it.

Perhaps it offended me at first, but soon I grew used to watching the hut, taking to chores and manual labour happily. As much as I adored the books, limiting my labour to them drained me. Exercising my body and mind with more physical tasks also kept me from sulking in Linus' absence.

It was two years before I was allowed into town; Linus was stubborn enough to drag my banishment to three years, but it was a punishment his aging body could not allow. I honored his condition by sticking to the tasks he assigned me. The first time I returned, arms loaded with materials, heels undogged by rioting peasants, a burden was lifted from Linus' shoulders and I was sent out more often.

We did not speak of it.

Customers were rare – in town, extremists were rallying around a single cause: to exterminate binders – so we only saw to desperate souls with nothing to lose. Those bindings were guaranteed to be difficult, so without consulting me Linus would conduct them, oftentimes neglecting to wake me up if we had an early caller. I was too volatile for him to trust.

We did not speak of it.

It is a learned instinct for binders, I thought. To run away. Our very practice idealized it. Binders didn't have the mental fortitude to learn from mistakes, because our specialty was to pretend nothing happened. To maintain the falsitude that nothing happened. We did not speak of it. We would never speak of it.

I had to strike out on my own. Linus refused to let me bind and I couldn't handle the restrictions. I was a witch. I was a binder. I knew how to do it and thanks to Linus' strict teachings, I was confident I could manage my own household. Somewhere far away, perhaps in a smaller town or different countryside altogether. Mind made up, I left him as fall came upon us.

He stood in the doorway watching me gather what remained of my belongings: to avoid giving myself away I had been stealthily packing over the course of weeks. I finally discussed my decision with Linus last night. He'd given me his blessings. I quietly suspected he would be glad to get me out of his hair.

I shifted my heavy pack on my shoulder and said, 'Thank you for everything, Linus.' 

My voice did not shake. 

Linus watched me tiredly. He adjusted my shirt collar, a little crooked. He could be nitpicky sometimes. 'Be cautious out there. Times are dangerous.'

Always a bearer of bad news. I almost rolled my eyes. 'I'll be careful. You've taught me well – I can take care of myself.'

His expression put me on edge. Was he to give me one last lecture for the road? My mood with Linus would sour further. Could our relationship survive it? Linus must have considered that for himself, because I saw him abandon that line of thought. 'If you ever fall upon hard times,' he murmured, 'do not hesitate to ask for help.'

'I won't.' I jutted my chin out. 

I was so convinced that I wouldn't struggle that my promise had nothing behind it. Linus had to know.

'I'll keep you updated, okay? You do the same for me. Once I secure a place, I will post a letter, and I expect a response! Once a month, don't you dare skimp!'

His wrinkled mouth creased into a smile. He patted my hair, fidgeting with a choppy brown lock, 'I wouldn't dare. Now, I shan't hold you here much longer. Fall has shorter days and you should travel with the sun.'

I refused to be sad. This was what I needed. Independence, a chance to become my own kind of binder. To show off my adult-like resolution, I firmly shook Linus' hand goodbye, refusing to hug him as I truly wanted. I would visit Linus later, once I was set up, and hug him then. Presently I would be strong and resist such childish urges.

'All the best, Seredith.'

'You as well, Linus.' I grinned. 'Monthly correspondence. I'll hold you to it.'

I tromped down the porch and set off for the pathway. 

I wanted Linus to praise me. Not having my fantasy fulfilled made me eager to set off: I had been a reliable, hard-working apprentice apart from the Annali Tailor instance. That was my only strike on record. Otherwise, I'd been happy to learn and submissive to his needs. Just the once had I argued, and it stained every interaction since. Linus sure could hold a grudge.

I was determined not to glance back. No longer would I pine for Linus' approval. I was above it.

Of course, when he called, 'Seredith!' no force in the world could have stopped me from spinning around. This was it. He would make known his appreciation for me. 

I had the dopiest smile in my face as I awaited long-deserved compliments, but then his frown registered, and I knew that praise was not going to follow. He cupped his hands around his mouth, 'Travel along the back routes, would you? I've heard there's trouble on the main roads! It's not safe!'

_ Groan._ Naturally his last words would be to doubt my competence. I plastered a smile on my face and waved wildly, 'Will do. Thanks, Linus!'

One more time, I would heed his words. Those would be the last orders I would take from Linus. After that – I was on my own.

It was the imperative prerogative of all youths to be taken with arrogance above their station, and their duty to eventually overcome it and graduate into real adulthood. At nineteen, without child or suitors, a witch in the making, I was not held to the most common societal expectations; except that one.

I travelled using the back roads, per my former master's instruction, and in doing so avoided a mob of Crusaders – although they weren't called that yet – who were on their way to the Binder's Cabin. I slept restlessly that night, tossing and turning in my bedroll, unable to pin down a persistent feeling of dread.

I did not leave the safety of my tent. I did not gaze at the blazing light in the distance, from the direction I had come, and wonder how a bonfire could get so out of control. I did not know what Linus had spared me from, what he had always tried to spare me from, or that in his last few hours of life he'd finally succeeded. 

I was young. Arrogant. The next morning I absently noted a lingering ash smell, dismissed it, and continued on my uneventful journey.

Linus never did write back.

* * *

Having Emmett around is strange. 

He is far from the first client to return after a binding. Outside of elaborate escape plans like this one, retraumatized customers come for the same reason they came the first time. I _ never _ bind the same person twice and have to turn them away. It has too much potential to go wrong. In that respect it isn't odd having Emmett around – simply put, he is an entirely different person.

His fire is gone. The farm boy is wary, sickly. I removed a season's worth of memories, I expected weakness, but I will admit his fever is moving along faster than I thought. When I bound him I caught a glimpse of his potential, the way he gravitated towards books, and I knew his visit to me would awaken the sickness. It will pass the longer he stays, but he's starting from the bottom of the barrel. 

I leave him to acquaint himself with the tools. He takes to the workshop greedily; learning the craft is the only balm for him. He spends hours figuring out the tooling, filling the waste bin with burnt leathers and stiff parchment. He hates the locked doors – hiding the books, some part of him knows – but he copes with it because he is healing.

Emmett's book is not in the vault. Since he wants to burn it, there's no point sorting it when it's due for destruction. I don't know how to bring it up.

So, I'm in my basement, thinking and plotting.

As much as I enjoy working around the house my health doesn't allow for it, whereas a steady diet of food, rest and book binding has improved Emmett's disposition. Once he is well enough to help with chores, he seems happy enough to do them – his farm life is not too far behind him. I buy myself a few weeks keeping him busy with gardening.

A fortnight passes. I finish a book from a binding before taking Emmett on. It's a relief to put it away in my vault. Satisfaction from a job well-done courses through me, and I go upstairs for some tea when I hear – laughter?

It was empty and hard and I heard a voice – not Emmett's – say, 'You don't care, do you? Why should you? You've got no idea who I am.'

I hasten, too concerned to dwell on what the stranger is saying. The door leads to the workshop, which isn't visible from the porch and shouldn't be occupied by anyone other than Emmett. My apprentice is vulnerable. 

Emmett sounds cold. 'No. I haven't.' 

'Emmett, please – look at me, just for a second, please. I don't understand what happened. I tried to visit your parents but they wanted nothing to do with me – Alta couldn't stand the sight of me. The only reason I knew you were here was because of idle gossip—'

No more. I burst into the workshop, laying eyes on them for the first time. Emmett looks nauseous at his seat, hands trembling around a scalpel. He broke out into a sweat – his fever is acting up at the worst possible moment. His head struggles to stay upright. In front of him is a tall, lean figure with messy dark hair and a rumpled suit, leaning in too close as he desperately attempts conversation. The stranger is manic.

My voice comes out like thunder. 'What's going on?'

The man spins around: and my heart stops. There is no mistaking him, even with red-rimmed eyes and a face so pale and gaunt he could be on his deathbed. Castleford has not been kind to Lucian Darnay. Red spreads over his face. 'I'm here for a binding.'

I should have acted sooner. If Emmett was unbound he would have never been taken by sickness. Lucian has triggered it. 'What are you doing in the workshop? Emmett, you should have called me at once.'

Emmett swallows thickly. 'I thought—'

'It wasn't Emmett's fault, it was mine,' Lucian hurries to say. He watches Emmett with desperate confusion. 'My name is—'

'I know who you are,' I interrupt warily. I should watch him more carefully, at least check that he wasn't tailed by that horrible Mr Acre, but Emmett releases an awful moaning sound and I can't focus on anything but that. Lucian steps forward, halting when I cut a cautionary look to him. 'Emmett? Are you well?'

Dizzily, Emmett nods. I had to do something. A binding, Lucian said? He asked for it. I am compelled to fulfil him – as a binder it is my duty to. All I could think of was the deal I made with Emmett, that I hadn't yet honored in the two weeks he had been here.

How did Lucian discover Emmett's location so quickly? I wanted more time. 

'Mr Darnay, come with me.' I say. Lucian doesn't move. His lover has forgotten him, yes, but Lucian hasn't forgotten Emmett and Emmett is ill; he is incapable of walking away. I harden my voice. '_C__ome._'

He turns, walks towards me, and lets himself be ushered into the binding room. I'm usually careful not to allow Emmett a glimpse – his compulsion to bind would become uncontrollable if he laid eyes on it – but the boy is so taken by weakness that I don't hide the room. Once Lucian is rigidly seated, I rush to Emmett's side.

His forehead is hot and his eyes struggle to focus on me. I push his hair back from his face. 'Emmett, are you alright? He should never have . . .' Emmett's face was blank. He didn't remember. 'Go and lie down.'

'I'm fine.'

He was far from it. He was going to be worse, too. 'Then go and mix up a jar of paste in the kitchen.'

Emmett leaves to do just that, staggering on numb legs. He'll pass out, I'm sure of it. His magic recognizes Lucian, recognizes the binding room, and he's trying to put it all together. The strain will be too much. I'll give it a few minutes – check on him, put him to bed once he's less lucid. 

Then I will have a chat with Lucian Darnay.

* * *

Emmett safely tucked in bed, I finally address Lucian, who appears to be putting all his effort into sitting down. Distress rolls off him like black waves. 

I close the door behind me, observing how his hands, clenched around his tailored slacks, whiten around the knuckles. He watches my every move with learned caution. His father has experience with binding. Castleford, wasn't it? They trade in that town. I've no doubt his experiences with my craft are nothing short of amoral.

'Calm down, boy. I won't be binding you today.' A wave of exhaustion hits me. I should, he's asked for it, and my magic rebels at the idea of resisting. 'I want to talk to you about Emmett.'

His gaze turns slitted and flinty. 'What about him?'

Try as he might, he can't hide his feelings. Lucian wants to hear what I have to say. He wants to know why Emmett chose to be bound. 'I have an arrangement with my apprentice. We came to an agreement before he was bound. Do you want to know what it was?'

'No. Not if . . .' Lucian looks away. 'I'm a stranger to him, aren't I? It's none of my business.'

'I assure you, it is very relevant. It is why I cannot bind you. I won't tolerate burning two books, one just after I finished it.' Of that I had no doubt; if Emmett learned of Lucian's fate, the very first thing he would do would be to chuck his book into the oven.

I have Lucian's interest now, tired as it is. 'I thought you had to bind. Once someone says yes, binders leap at the opportunity. Why wouldn't you do the same?'

'Emmett,' I answer simply. 'Mr Acre is one of yours, isn't he?' Lucian jumps like he's been struck, a dawning horror coming on him. 'He escorted Emmett here for a binding some time ago. Trussed him up in a sack and delivered him to my marsh, forced him to get a binding.'

'You did it?' Lucian says, like he isn't surprised at all.

'I did. Emmett wanted me to.'

'He was _ kidnapped!_'

'I did notice. I waited for him to calm down and went through his situation: he consented to the binding while in possession of his wits. I would never,' I tell him hotly, 'bind without consent.'

Lucian looks wild. 'Then why can't Emmett remember me? Why would he . . . I don't understand. Please explain it to me. You bound him, didn't you? You have his book?' He put his hands flat on the table and began searching for them; for naught, as my vault is not here, and Emmett's book is not in the vault. 'I have to read it. I was so sure we were . . . did he not . . .'

'He did love you, have no doubt about that. It crushed him when you left.'

'I didn't _ want _ to,' Lucian whispers. 'I would never want to. Did he tell you that?'

'It's as you said: I bound him. He loved you dearly. If his family wasn't in danger, nothing in the world could have convinced him to give you up.'

I intend to carry on, explain my arrangement with Emmett, when Lucian surprises me. He covers his face with his hands, tipping forward until his forehead is flat on the table: the first sob makes me jump. 'I feared – our time together was precious to me, but what if I'd _ done _something to him, unknowingly moved too quickly . . . I must have done something hideous for Emmett to bind himself —'

His guilt and regret consume him. He cries until he runs out of tears, too overwhelmed to choke out words. Emmett didn't hate him; Emmett had loved him; Emmett was ill and unable to work in the fields because of Lucian's wretched father. He cries for all of it. 

I kindly wait until he's fit to listen. 'I can't bind you, boy. It would be a waste of time. Once Emmett's book is burned he will remember –that is our deal.'

Lucian wipes his face, embarrassed. 'Then why haven't you done it?'

'Burning a book . . . I've done it before, but it never gets easier. A binder's books are sacred. I have struggled to gather my courage.'

Lucian can't think too kindly of my reason. He doesn't say it though; I think he's too grateful that I am, as far as he can tell, on Emmett's side. He stands. 'If you can't, I'll have to do it. I'm not a binder, right? It is acceptable when I do it.'

It isn't. I should burn with my books. It always feels so unspeakably wrong to watch a book burn without me; I'm sick for days afterwards. And yet it is nothing compared to how I would feel if I kept Emmett's book, when I know he's trusting me to throw it into the fire. If It was hard to dishonor his request before, it is impossible now that he lives with me. He's a good boy; and this Lucian Darnay sure is in love with him.

Emmett needs me.

I stand up.

'Wait in the workshop. I'll fetch it for you.'

**Author's Note:**

> Seredith and Lucian get along fantastically in this universe, thanks for asking. And yes, it will be a universe: this trio isn't finished with me yet. 
> 
> Also, I have taken major liberties with Binding 'verse magic. What can I say? I love witches. Had to reread a bit of the book too. I started this in Feburary, stopped, then finished it in a sprint within a few hours. Hence why my writing style chops and changes. It's been a while.
> 
> As usual, big thank you to everyone who reads! I noticed more fics in the fandom! YAY!! Please let me read The Binding content that I haven't created myself! (I am so sick of my own writing.)


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